


afternoon confessions

by lovebeyondmeasure



Series: all the hours belong to you and me [2]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebeyondmeasure/pseuds/lovebeyondmeasure
Summary: “So you’re encouraging me to skiv off, then? You’re a terrible influence, Mr. Strike.” She was grinning at him now, a teasing sort of smile. It had taken months before he’d ever glimpsed it; she reserved it for only those she felt most comfortable with.“I’m just saying,” he said, smiling back, “that it’s Saturday, it’s been a long week, and I think we’ve both earned a pint. And I’m saying,” he said, moving to lean against her desk, next to the keyboard, “that I’d like to buy you a drink.”She tilted her head back, not breaking eye contact. “Would you now, Mr. Strike?”Cormoran comes to a realization. A follow-up to "late night questions, midnight answers"





	afternoon confessions

**Author's Note:**

> I was prompted by arockwith-astripe on tumblr, and this happened. I regret nothing. 
> 
> Set eight or nine months after the events of "midnight answers"

Despite having been the one to make the first move, Cormoran had been sure that kissing Robin would disturb their office’s equilibrium. How could it not? With his feelings out in the open, she would surely act differently, or expect him to treat her differently, and he had decided this was a risk he was willing to take.

But somehow, very little had changed, at least while they were working. Of course, sometimes he would find himself considering catching her about the hips and pulling her down for a kiss when she brought him coffee, but that was hardly new. And occasionally he would catch her gaze drifting to his lips while he was going over something with her, but she never did more than look.

And everything was somehow…. fine. Based on all previous data, Cormoran was finding this very hard to believe. Things in his life were rarely “fine,” and even more so when women were involved.

The important factor to remember, he had decided months ago, was that Robin was not Charlotte, and in fact had little in common with Charlotte, and that expecting her to act in the same way was ridiculous. All his patterns, his reactions, were based on Charlotte, on 16 years of anticipating her and moving first, and he was having trouble recalibrating, even now.

Robin didn’t seem to hold this against him; in fact, she seemed to be dealing with the same sort of issue. More than once he’d found himself saying, “It’s just me, love, it’s all right.” And each time she got this look on her face, a sort of confusion and consternation, as she too recalibrated her expectations. And they gave each other the time and space to adjust, and adjust again, and never spoke of it aloud.

* * *

It was Saturday, but somehow they were both in the offices. Robin had been out, taking her turn tailing a young man whom a reporter was sure was secretly dating an online celebrity; Cormoran couldn’t follow it all, but the young man was singularly uninteresting. It paid decently, though, so they humored the whole thing.

Cormoran…. if he was honest, he’d come in because he had nothing else to be doing, and was bored. He’d had some half-baked plans to go over some old files, close them out, clear space in the cabinets. Instead, though, he was reading the message boards on aarse.co.uk, feeling an odd sense of nostalgia for the days when his life had been defined by these acronyms, the clear sense of purpose that the military had provided.

He had thought this would be his world forever; after the accident, he had thought he would long for it forever. But now, somehow, he didn’t.

His business was, against all odds, successful. He had a junior partner who would most likely, with enough training, be as good as any partner he’d ever had in the military; she was certainly more than good enough for the sorts of cases they dealt in now.

And she was sitting at her desk, diligently spending her Saturday afternoon typing up reports, making sense of their combined scribblings into a document that could be sent to the reporter as billable work. Cormoran realized, belatedly, that he had been gazing off towards her for the better part of ten minutes, as his monitor dimmed and began its screensaver.

Taking a deep breath, he got up and went out to lean on the wall by Robin’s desk. Without looking up or pausing, she asked, “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Strike?”

“Robin,” he said, “it’s Saturday.”

Her fingers were flying much faster than his ever did. “Yes. And?”

“What time do you think you’ll be done with this?”

She stopped, swiveling her chair around to gaze up at him. “After this I’ve got the final reports for Barrister Grab-Hands to finish, so unless you’ve got something else for me to do, I was thinking I’d just keep working.”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said, “but it must have been massively good. Robin, love, let’s knock off for the day. Let me buy you a drink.”

A smile touched the corners of her lips. “Are you saying this as my boss?”

“I’m not your boss,” he said, leaning back. “You’re my partner.”

"Junior partner," she corrected. “Which still leaves you in charge.”

“That’s... fair,” he allowed. “But no, I’m not saying this as your boss.” He didn’t know what else to say; he hardly felt as though he was her “boyfriend,” but what other word applied? They’d never really talked about it.

“So you’re encouraging me to skiv off, then? You’re a terrible influence, Mr. Strike.” She was grinning at him now, a teasing sort of smile. It had taken months before he’d ever glimpsed it; she reserved it for only those she felt most comfortable with.

“I’m just saying,” he said, smiling back, “that it’s Saturday, it’s been a long week, and I think we’ve both earned a pint. And I’m saying,” he said, moving to lean against her desk, next to the keyboard, “that I’d like to buy you a drink.”

She tilted her head back, not breaking eye contact. “Would you now, Mr. Strike?”

Cormoran leaned forward, his hands on the arms of her chair; he was watching her face, and saw only a sweet anticipation. “I would,” he said huskily, and watched her eyes go to his lips, and then he was kissing her.

He could taste her smile against his mouth, and he was smiling too, and when she pulled away he felt as content as he ever had.

“Well then, Mr. Strike,” she said. “Take me away.”

He stepped back, extending a hand, and she took it with the air of a princess, rising gracefully and stepping into his arms.

She laughed. “I thought we were going?”

“I know,” he said into her hair. “I just couldn’t resist.” He released her, and she danced away, and now he saw she was barefoot.

“Let me put on my shoes and my cardi, and we can go,” she said, moving toward the coat rack. Cormoran, watching her, was irresistibly reminded of the night they’d first kissed, in this office, with her barefoot, in the shadows of midnight.

Here, in the early summer sunlight, he felt again that swelling of hope and affection in his chest; she was so quick, and bright, and lovely, and he knew that she would never hurt him, never even think of it, and he knew once more than the 16 years he’d spent with blazing, brilliant, knife-sharp Charlotte could not compare to the months he’d spent trading soft kisses with Robin.

It had been- he did a quick mental calculation- going on nine months, in fact, since that dark, wet night. And they’d never made anything explicit, never sat down and discussed their future plans. Robin had never made any sort of demand of him, really, beyond what he already wanted to do. And why should she? He wanted to do everything for her, with her.

Robin was the singular most restful person he’d ever met. Her requirements of him were clear and reasonable; she did not hide her emotions, did not hold grudges. Or perhaps she did, but not the way he was used to, and so it barely registered. She simply allowed him to be as he was, and she went on as she wished, and more and more they found they wanted the same things, were going in the same direction.

This, this soft rising emotion, was this love? He’d only known love as a hard, quick thing, as Cupid’s arrow, piercing his chest, slicing through muscle and bone to lodge in him, a foreign object that resisted removal. But this was like sunlight, like the ocean’s rolling tide, a gentle pull, a constant sighing wave.

Robin was tying her trainers, a cheerful floral-printed pair she only wore on the weekends. She looked up at him, her honey-colored hair falling over her face, and smiled. “I’m ready if you are.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, lost in thought,” he said.

“What were you thinking about?” she asked, coming back over to him.

Looking down into her eyes, Cormoran saw no reason to lie. “You,” he said softly.

“What about me?” Her smile was so familiar, now, and still somehow each one was precious.

“Thinking about that first night I kissed you,” he said. “Right here.”

“I know,” she said. “I think about that night all the time.”

“Do you?” he asked, surprised.

She laughed, embarrassed. “Be hard not to, really. And besides,” she sighed. “It was one of the better nights of my life.”

Cormoran could not have put a name to the feeling that this gave rise to within him, but another man might have called it pride, and another desire, and a third tenderness. Cormoran only knew that he wanted to feel this way for a very long time.

“Say it again,” he said.

“It was one of the better nights of my life?” she asked, then saw his face, and understood. Her mouth a gentle smile, she said, “Cormoran.”

And still, hearing his name in her mouth, in that tone, made him feel-

He cupped a hand along the curve of her cheek, pulling her close for a kiss. She sighed into his mouth, again, “Cormoran.”

He kissed her again, harder, and they fell into their rhythm, well-established now, and Cormoran felt once more the way he’d felt that night, months ago; that he’d been standing still instead of moving forward, that he’d been holding himself back.

Pulling away, just slightly, he looked down into Robin’s eyes, now half-lidded, her ruddy cheeks and soft lips. She blinked up at him.

“You really do like it when I call you by name, don’t you,” she said, satisfied.

“I do,” he said. “I love hearing the way you say it.”

“Cormoran,” she cooed up at him, and he grimaced.

“Not like that!”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“Cormoran,” Robin said in the soft way of hers.

“Yeah,” he said. “Like that. I love that. I love-”

He cut himself off, turning to kiss her gently on the lips.

“I love you,” he whispered. She froze in his arms for the briefest of seconds, pulling away, and he thought he’d made a terrible mistake; but her face had a shining sort of hope in it.

“You do?”

“Yes,” he said, and she was kissing him, sure and sweet and strong, and he gave himself up to her. Robin’s arms came up around his neck, pulling him into her, and somehow they bumped up against the wall, and he was pressing her against it, and she was sighing _Cormoran_ into his mouth, and he couldn’t have stopped if God himself had walked through the door.

When finally they came up for air, Robin was flushed and beaming and he couldn’t help himself; Cormoran leaned in, peppering her face with kisses, until she pushed him away, laughing.

“What made you decide to tell me this today?” she asked. “Why now?”

“Because,” he said, stroking his thumbs over the backs of her hands. “I couldn’t not tell you.”

“Well, Cormoran Strike,” she said, breathless and lovely and his-all-his, “that makes me London’s luckiest girl, I think.”

“No,” he said, leaning in to press her back against the wall. “You’re London’s loveliest woman, and I’m the lucky one.”

And as he kissed her mouth, her cheek, her neck, she whispered his name once more, and he knew that this, this was what love was supposed to feel like.


End file.
